


Sir Galahad

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jules is a sweet boy. He doesn't belong in a cruel place like boarding school.





	Sir Galahad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akatonbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatonbo/gifts).



The Jonet Academy for Exceptional Young Men was a horrific place. At least Jules thought so. He was kind, generous, unsuited to a school where France’s elite gathered to improve their bullying skills and prepare for a life of talking down to their lesser man. Jules was considered a lesser being by his schoolmates, and it wasn’t his fault and it certainly wasn’t fair, but Jules had obtained his place in the Academy via a scholarship. Not even one granted by the school itself, but a benevolent force he didn’t quite understand had undertaken to pay his way through learning Latin and philosophy and advanced mathematics.

Not being front a wealthy family meant that he’d leave the school with a good education, but not close to the money or support needed to become a lawyer, a banker, or even a clergyman. No, Jules was destined for secretarial work, perhaps teaching, but a profession that didn’t rely on nepotism which unfortunately most of Paris required.

“Devaux!”

Jules winced at the sound of his name being called down a lofty corridor. He didn’t like his last name. It reminded him of his grandfather who was cruel, and his father who was dead. His last name on the sordid lips of a rich young man at the end of the corridor made him flinch even further. This particular young man was a snide individual with more money than sense and a distinct lack of kindness.

“Devaux, come here you imbecile. I don’t have all day.”

Jules sighed, ran a hand through his hair, then walked towards the distinctive voice of the Parisian upper class.

“You’ve done my Latin translation haven’t you?”

“Yes of course,” Jules said. He found that boarding school had knocked the wind out of him, he felt helpless and lonely and everything he did was decidedly muted. “I left it in your room.”

“Good.” The boy’s lip curled cruelly. His name was Phillipe Lamoire, and he was detestable in every possible way. “Be a good boy and do TK and TK? You wouldn’t want me to make life hard for you now would you?”

Jules considered. Life was already hard for him here, but it could indeed be a great deal harder. He agreed to finish the Latin translations of his peers and hoped that Lamoire would leave him alone. He’d finished his own in good time, surely there was no harm in helping out his fellow man. Jules was too kind, and he was too poor, and at the moment too young to take advantage of anything else the world might have to offer someone like him. That evening he found himself crouched between the small space between his bed and the wall, a small candle lighting his work, as he used a careful hand to copy Latin phrases onto cheap paper. Unlike the wealthier boys at the academy, Jules couldn’t afford a room of his own, and so lived in a dormitory with the rest of the scholarship students, those on benefactor’s funds, or the sons of the lower middle classes who were trying their best. He imagined being rescued from such a place. Someone would come for him, they’d climb through the window, swoop him away, perhaps he would ride on the back of a fine horse, and all would be well, he would be safe. He imagined this figure to be very much like the illustration of Sir Galahad in his copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. An extraordinarily tall and dashing man, capable with a sword, a purveyor of kindness. This was the man who would save him.

* * *

 

Jules was sitting in the library, a place he knew was safe from his bullies as they would never come into such a place. He was curled up in one of the large armchairs, a book of fables in his hands. He had always been a fanciful boy, and though he was good with his letters and numbers his preference for reading would always be fantastical fiction. He enjoyed tales of knights and adventures and heroes, for he always wished he might meet one of his own. The dragons of his school that blew fiery breath down upon him might be sorry if any of these bold and noble figures came for him here.

It was spring. A beautiful one at that, the grass had flushed green and the birds were out in their full melodious force. Yet it was quiet, almost too quiet, something that Jules would not yet learn to question young as he was. Yet the rising heat of midday was enough to put him in a beautiful haze where the words on his page were his only concern. There may well have been turmoil outside the library walls, and indeed there was, but Jules could not say he cared much for it. It wasn’t until much later that he would discover, the school had gathered in the hall at the strict and urgent instruction of the master, and there they had been informed of the tragic death of the Latin master, M. Wille, and quite quickly a messenger had been sent to the local inspector. The local inspector was not at home, he was on a sabbatical in the south, and the portress, kind as much as she was foolish, had forwarded the letter to the prefecture in Paris. It seemed the obvious course of action to her. It turned out the current Prefect had attended school with one of the governors at the academy, and as a man of wavering and sudden passions, he immediately set out in a carriage with one of his best inspectors towards the school.

Jules, curled up in the library, his fingers brushing over the smooth illustrations of Sir Galahad riding on his valiant way to rescue his love, had no idea.

* * *

 

The master had been cruel, had shouted, had accused him, had said many harsh things, and Philippe Lamoire had hovered in the background smirking.

“The only boy not accounted for! During the time of death I daresay! Outrageous! An oversight indeed! You have always been a nuisance, an upstart, we should not have taken you in. By God we shall find out who pepetraded this crime, and for my sakes I hope it’s you, caning was never good enough as punishment for a wastrel such as yourself. Why, I have a good mind to—”

“Monsieur Tyré I presume?”

Both Jules and M. Tyré the vicious master spun to see a man in the doorway. M. Tyré’s lip curled into a cruel smiled and he almost laughed as he regarded this newcomer in relation to Jules. “You’ve had it now my boy. Look the police are already here.”

The stranger stepped forward with a light frown gracing his face. He had obviously had M. Tyré’s tirade of abuse, yet his countenance remained unaffected and he seemed to not care.

“My name is Monsieur Gisquet, I am the Prefect of police in Paris.”

Jules could feel a certain sense of kindness radiating off this man. His eyes were a perfect forest green, so calming to gaze into, and his hair was dark and soft, grey at the temples, his features aged slightly but there was a sign that he had once been a beautiful young man. He was still beautiful, Jules thought, he was very much that. But it was the man that stood behind him who he had suddenly realised was there that caused Jules to start a little and a slight lump rose in his throat.

“Monsieur I do not understand,” He said quickly before all speech would fail him. “Have I done something wrong?”

“What a sweet boy, goodness me.” M. Gisquet laughed. “No, you’re not in any trouble.”

M. Gisquet smiled warmly at Jules and Jules felt his heart rate increase slightly. “Let us adjourn somewhere else to complete the paperwork M. Tyré, I have some other details I wish to discuss with you out of earshot of our dear young friend.” He smiled again at Jules, and despite the ominous nature of M. Gisquet’s phrasing, he didn’t consider it sinister. For the first time in a long time he felt strangely comfortable.

“Of course, why don’t we step into my office,” M. Tyré said. “They are quite spacious and appropriate.”

“Indeed.” M. Gisquet turned to the tall and imposing gentleman who stood behind him, his gentle calm and ease permeating the room. “Inspector, why don’t you sit with Monsieur Devaux. I am sure he would appreciate your company.”

“Yes Monsieur.”

“You may answer his questions.” M. Gisquet spoke this in a strange voice, as if there was something pointed not being conveyed via words. “Ease his mind if you will, there is nothing I wish to keep from him about what is happening.”

Once M. Gisquet and M. Tyré had left the room, M. Gisquet with a dramatic sweep of his coat that emanated superiority and grace, Jules turned to the Inspector. “Monsieur, are you quite sure I am not in any trouble?”

“You are not,” The Inspector replied curtly.

“I see.” Jules played with his cuffs for a moment. “It is just…you are the police and I don’t see how I might aid you otherwise.”

Jules looked up and saw that the Inspector was looking around the office, his whole physique seemed to have pricked up, Jules decided he was witnessing something very important.

“You are not in trouble, and if the Prefect tells you so then you must believe him. You must believe his every word.”

“Oh.” Jules regarded the Inspector. He was tall, so very tall, Jules had to look up a considerable distance just to take him all in. He had a discerning brow and sharp dark eyes, hair swept back into a neat queue at the base of his neck, formidable and well-kept whiskers adorned his cheeks, and his uniform, dark navy with silver trim, was form-fitting. A sleek black wooden stick was fitted in his belt and the Inspector’s hand hovered just above it, poised and ready. He wore shiny black leather boots that reached over his knees and his hands too were gloved in black leather. He breathed in a soft intake of breath, he believed this might indeed be Sir Galahad.

“Are you here to find out what happened to Monsieur Wille?”

“We know what happened. He was killed. He is dead.”

“Oh, I see.” Jules licked his lips softly. “My name is Jules. Jules Nabon Devaux.”

“I know.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

It was as if that carved face were made of stone, it barely seemed to move. Jules felt himself rubbing the pads of his palms with his fingertips.

“May I know it?”

“You may call me Inspector Javert.”

Jules licked his lips again. “I was sad to hear about Monsieur Wille. He was very kind.”

“Kind?”

“Yes Monsieur.”

“You may say ‘Inspector’, not ‘Monsieur’.”

Jules looked up at Javert and tried to gauge something about him, but it was impossible. The man kept himself locked up so tight it would take extreme difficulty to penetrate that shell. It was unusual, it was alluring, and Jules could feel his heart in his chest beat even faster.

“Will you catch who did it Inspector?”

“I already have.” Javert smirked and Jules shivered. Was this code? Did they suspect it was in fact him after all? Luckily for Jules, Javert continued to speak without prompting. “He was apprehended on the side of the road, he picked him up as we passed in our carriage, you are lucky that it was Paris who came to your aid. He was found with several incriminating implements and his suspicious behaviour confirmed what was long past a suspicion.”

“How did you know to stop your carriage?”

“I saw him approaching, and I knew. I have a talent for spotting these kind of people. It was obvious from far away that the man approaching was criminal in some nature. I ordered the carriage to stop so I might question him, and I was proved right.” Javert smiled, baring all his teeth.

“I suppose that is a good thing.”

“A good thing? Why of course it is, what could not be good about it?”

“I liked Monsieur Wille, and I am sorry he’s dead, I think that’s the bad thing Inspector.”

“You are too sensitive for the police.”

“I do not doubt it Inspector.” Jules gave him a small smile. “But I do not have any intention of applying, and I do not think you would accept me.”

Javert’s face clouded for a moment, but before he could speak the door to M. Tyré’s office swung open and M. Gisquet emerged, his expression bright as always.

“That’s all done,” Gisquet said in a congratulatory tone which he was directing at himself. “Quite pleasing, quite pleasing indeed. We shall be off then I think.”

Jules turned to look at Javert, the imposing figure of the knight in shining armour. “I wish you a safe journey back to Paris Inspector.”

Javert opened his mouth to speak, but M. Gisquet cut him off. “Javert? You did not tell him? How useless of you.”

“Monsieur, my apologies, I never found a moment.”

“Well I don’t want to waste any more time here, it reminds me of school.”

“It is a school Monsieur.”

“Yes, thank you Javert, always so observant. Come along.”

M. Gisquet marched out the room with what Jules considered divine purpose. Jules waited for Javert to follow but Javert was just staring at him. “You’re coming with us.”

Jules felt his heart sink. “So I am in trouble? But I thought you said—”

“Calm yourself, I won’t have hysterics in my carriage.”

“But Inspector—”

“It shall be explained to you on the way, now come.”

Javert put a hand in the small of Jules’s back, and Jules felt he might melt into the floor right there and then, but instead he was propelled out the door and into the corridor and then Javert switched to holding tight to his forearm and dragged him the rest of the way to the carriage. There were white horses harnessed into the prefect’s carriage, and as Javert opened the door and held out his hand to help him up Jules remembered the copy of Le Morte d’Arthur still clutched in his hand, filled with the tales and pictures of Sir Galahad, brave, bold, and handsome, rescuing him from the pits of hell.

 


End file.
